


Falling from the Heavens

by written_in_blood



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Supernatural, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: After Cain, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, An Assassin and a Hunter, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky becomes an avenger, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Walk Into A Bar
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-06-01 14:14:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15144881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/written_in_blood/pseuds/written_in_blood
Summary: The form that stepped through the doors was not what James was expecting. At such a violent reaction, James expected a demon of a man, tall and muscled, armed to the teeth as the others were, or at least murderous in appearance. Instead, his gaze was met by a fairly short man with chocolate brown hair and eyes as clear as jade. Attractive, James noted, with an alarmingly symmetrical face. “Jack, my man! How's death treating you?” The man joked playful, his deep voice resonating with a dull laugh.“Better than its treating you, Winchester.”“What can I say,” ‘Winchester’ began, throwing his arms outward in a show of defenselessness, revealing his unarmed state to the whole of the bar. “We don't stay dead.”





	1. How Hunter Meets Prey

James knew there was something wrong with the bar the second he stepped through the thick, silver reinforced doors. Well, something aside the silver reinforced doors. And single salt lined window. And the death glare that the bartender was so graciously giving him as if James had killed his family. Knowing the Winter Soldier, maybe he did.

 

But no, what was not what caught James’ attention first and foremost.

 

It was how the entirety of the bar turned to watch him, silence dripping from their communal presence as if James had ripped the words straight from their mouths the second he crossed the threshold. Each man, tattooed and burly, muscled and frankly military without a single year of service between them, was staring at James like he’d grown two heads.

 

“New ‘round here, son?” The bartender called in a thick southern accent, hands that previously had been whipping down glasses stilling. “Or are ‘ya followin’ the glow?”

 

There was something about the way he said it that implied code, something just not exactly as it sounded. Why a bartender in Podunk, Nowhere needed to talk in code, god only knew.

 

“I don’t believe I am doing anything much of right now besides looking for a good pint,” James deflected almost immediately, hoping he hadn’t walked into an american mafia front or something as ridiculous.

 

“Looking for anythin’ else, son?” The bartender shot back. James knew exactly what it meant, the less than subtle dig at his being.  _ Looking for trouble? _

 

This place was for a certain type of people and James was not one of those people. “Ain’t looking for trouble if that’s what you’re asking. Just needing a pint.”

 

The bartender gave a long, hard look, curves in his cheeks stiffening before he reached over. He poured a pint of beer as he kept eye contact with James and set in down in front of his with a click against the bar. “Welcome to the Connecting Point, boy.” And just like that, life seemed to pour back into the bar little by little until the jukebox resumed playing and chosen pairs began chatting adamantly again.

 

It was a damn good pint, James decided as he settled into a booth facing the door.

 

There were still lingering gazes and the couple stray hands drifting towards the imprint of guns. EVERY man in the bar was armed to the teeth; guns at the waist, loose bullets in pockets, knives in boots. It set every nerve James had on edge but oddly, the feeling of being surrounded by like-minded or like-trained men made his beer more enjoyable. He didn't have to smile or keep up appearances, just let the warrior sit on his shoulders in full view of the others with full knowledge he wasn't the only predator in the room.

 

After his third pint, still feeling nothing despite how hard he prayed for some buzz, the doors opened again.

 

Instead of James’ welcoming heat, there was a shocking cold that splintered through the bar and made the dead silence that followed that much more frightening. The bartender’s eyes went wide in a mixture of surprise and fear, the glass he was cleaning falling to the bar with a dull clatter. The patrons followed suit with a range of emotions from excitement to terror.

 

“Winchester,” a man at the bar hissed.

 

The form that stepped through the doors was not what James was expecting. At such a violent reaction, James expected a demon of a man, tall and muscled, armed to the teeth as the others were, or at least murderous in appearance. Instead, his gaze was met by a fairly short man with chocolate brown hair and eyes as clear as jade. Attractive, James noted, with an alarmingly symmetrical face. “Jack, my man! How's death treating you?” The man joked playful, his deep voice resonating with a dull laugh.

 

“Better than its treating you, Winchester.”

 

“What can I say,” ‘Winchester’ began, throwing his arms outward in a show of defenselessness, revealing his unarmed state to the whole of the bar. “We don't stay dead.” His plaid overshirt shifted and caught James’ attention.

 

What kind of idiot wore long sleeves in the summer, much less two layers?

 

James looked down at his oversized hoodie and gloves with a sigh. He was that kind of idiot.

 

“A pint on me, Jack, for the Winchester!” The only man - one that wore a mullet both unironically and unapologetically - that had reacted with any sort of positive reaction called to the bartender.

 

“Thanks, Ash. Oh, you remodeled,” Winchester comment absently as he strolled to the bar with a confident swagger. The bartender - Jack - regained his senses and poured him a pint, and Winchester raised it to the man who bought it. “Need this after the night I had.”

 

“Yeah?” The bartender prompted, still glancing at the man in front of his wearily as if expecting him to explode.

 

Winchester just shrugged, turning in the bar stool to survey the bar as if he were a king addressing his people. “The usual, really. A couple ‘a fangers off Main but they put up one hell of a fight. One almost knicked the company.”

 

If that wasn't code, James didn't know what was.

 

The bartender bristled, looking to the man in a Mohawk at his left. “Need any help?” He questioned when he recentered himself at Winchester’s back.

 

“Nah. Company’s dealing with it now.” Winchester waved a lazy hand as he took a long sip, eyes skipping around the bar.

 

James chose that moment to look up and his eyes found jade, an intrigued Winchester looking over him like he was appraising fine jewelry. “Who's the newbie?” He called to Ash with a smirk and the man shrugged.

 

“I am just looking to get drunk. I don't want any trouble,” James recited again, feeling a lot like a parrot.

 

Winchester’s eyes traced lazily down his form, pausing minutely on where James’ gloved hands were wrapped around his beer before he slid down the barstool in a long practiced move and made his way to James’ booth. He slipped into the over side at James’ absent nod. “You look like trouble finds you no matter if you look for it or not, buddy. The kinda people who come here have nowhere else to go. That, or they are running to or from something. Which one are you?”

He had that kind of look that haunted James' mirror, the kind of look that screamed, 'kill me or I will kill you.'

 

James watched the man for a silent moment, taking a long sip before answering. “Running. Not sure whether it's to or from, yet. Guess I will figure it out eventually.”

 

“That's all you can do,” Winchester confirmed with a short nod.

 

“And you?” He knew it wasn't his business but something about this mysterious stranger made him want to know more.

 

Winchester laughed, deep and long. “This is the Connecting Point, buckaroo. If I had anywhere else to go, I wouldn't be here.”

 

The nickname caught something in James’ memory of sunlight blond hair and well-worn charcoals, blistered palms and split knuckles. “D-Don't call me that,” he managed, forcing the whirling memories down. His gloved hands tightened minutely on his mug and the glass seemed to shake with each second.

 

His drinking partner considered him for a moment before the broad shoulders dipped into a shrug. “Okay, everyone's got something. What can I call you then?”

 

“James.”

 

“Dean,” he returned, flashing a blinding smile. “The boys call me Winchester but there has been a coupl’a of us so I prefer my name.”

 

“Dean,” James tried the name, rolling the sounds over his tongue. At his own name on James’ lips, Dean seemed to flush but hid it quickly behind his mug. “You got a place ‘round here, Dean?”

 

Dean’s face split into a wild grin. “A hotel room down the road. Wanna check it out?”

 

Now wasn't that straight forward. James returned the smile with a deep chuckle. “Why not.”


	2. During

“Goddamnit, James, I am not made of glass. You don't need to treat me like I will break.”

 

James smirked before diving to take Dean’s swollen lips again. “Let's see about that.”

 

~

 

He didn't know why he came back but somehow he found himself in front of that door again, hand raised to knock. A smiling brunet with a plaid overshirt and jade eyes opened it before his fist met wood.

 

“You came back.”

 

“I said I would.”

 

It became a habit.

 

~

 

Dean wrapped his arms around James’ stomach and held tight. James could only manage shallow breaths, but Dean’s presence help center him on their couch.

 

“It’s okay, James. You are here. You are safe, James.”

 

~

 

“James, I am not like other people. My life has been full of pain, murder, death. Guys like me, we don't get a happy ending. I am just going through the motions and one day, you are goin-”

 

“Dean. Shut up.”

 

They kissed, long and hard, emotional. Dean was shaking, his arms wrapped around himself as he still fought for control that had been ripped from him at the nightmare.

 

“I will love you no matter what, Dean. And guess what? I'm not normal either.”

 

“But-”

 

“No ‘but’s. We'll figure this out. Together.”

 

~

 

“From. I think I am running  _ from _ something. Someone, really.”

 

Dean shifted against his chest, hand finding James’ in the dark. “And?”

 

James looked to the ceiling. “And I think I am done running.”

 

~

 

“I am sorry, Dean.”

 

“No, you aren't. Please, don't apologize.”

 

“Dean…”

 

“Go, Jamie. I will be here if you ever want to visit.”

 

“I love you, Dean.”

 

He smiled, broken. “I know.”


	3. Reborn

“Winter, to your left!” Steve swung by him in all his star spangled glory, shield clocking another assailant in the face.

 

“Aliens?!” James demanded, dropping his metal arm against the alien rushing his left side. First mission with the Avengers and he was fighting goddamn aliens. His life.

 

This was his trial run, he knew. To see if he was fit to become an Avenger, if he was able to fight for the country he was forced to abandon without reverting to the Soldier.

 

Finding Steve had been easy but convincing the organization Captain America came along with of his innocence was a continuous uphill battle that included bulletproof cells and hours of roundabout questioning that proved to be more work than necessary. He wasn't cured in the end by any means but having the constant force behind him, awakening memories he thought long gone, made waking up every morning easier.

 

Being able to fight without the command to kill dimmed the burning underneath his skin.

 

He was… better.

 

“Hawkeye, report. How is the North?” Steve’s voiced flooded the coms as he and James finished subduing their wave of aliens.

 

Hawkeye - Clint, the blond archer’s name was - laughed. “I got accidental backup over here, Cap. You should see this guy, Widow, he's totally badass.”

 

“Language,” Steve chasted and James vaguely remembered the way he would comment on Morita’s foul mouth in the trenches. “Wait, what do you mean, ‘accidental backup’?”

 

“I mean, I went to set up from overhead when this man just suddenly starts taking out Greenies left and right.”

 

“Hawkeye, we are on our way. Don’t let this citizen get hurt.”

 

“Noted.”

 

Steve took off in Clint’s direction and James was quick to follow, throwing his rifle over his back as he went. The run was reinvigorating and quick, and they got to the uncleared sector in seconds.

 

Hawkeye was firing arrow after explosive arrow, muscular legs taking him from car roof to car roof and he hooped as each arrow was notched and released. Definitely an unique man, James concluded, that Hawkeye was.

 

But the archer didn’t hold James’ attention very long.

 

There was a plaid-clad man in the middle of the street fending off three aliens - god, James had to keep reminding himself that aliens existed - with a well-practiced flourish. He bucked and parried, lithe body ducking under the green limbs of the mutant spider-like aliens quickly. He was armed with a single blade but that was all he needed, it seemed, if the countless alien bodies gathered around the scene were any judge.

 

He dashed under a wayward limb and stabbed upwards, catching the closest alien in its armpit (?) before shoving the mass full force into another assailant. A flip and three twists over the third and he slit the alien’s throat before he could be touched.

 

“Son of a BITCH,” the man swore as the last alien was taken in the side by a stray arrow from Hawkeye and he breathed out deeply, arms dropping to his side in exhaustion. “Nice shot, kid!” He called up to Hawkeye’s perch on a truck’s roof and the archer gave him a teasing salute.

 

“Dean.” The name was out of James’ lips before his brain caught up with his mouth and the stranger’s blond head swiveled to where Steve and James were standing.

 

“James,” Dean breathed out on a shaky exhale.

 

James was walking forward, ignoring Steve’s curious look, and found himself with an armful of alien-bloodied Dean. “Dean,” he repeated, finding very little else to say. “Where did you learn to fight like that?”

 

Dean laughed breathlessly. “My father was a bastard. What are you doing here?”

 

They pulled back from each other and James took the opportunity to inspect the shorter blond. He had gotten thinner but no less confident and was wearing that same plaid shirt James remembered vividly ripping from Dean before they tumbled into bed a time ago. “I stopped running. Found a nice little job cleaning up messes like this.”

 

Dean looked around at the alien bodies, green goop and all, and whistled. “Tough gig, Jamie.”

 

“Bucky?” Steve called, confusion evident in his voice.

 

“Bucky?” Dean repeated, giving James an ‘aha’ look. “The ‘buckaroo’ thing makes sense now. You poor bastard, no wonder you go by James.”

 

“A nickname,” James growled.

 

Dean patted James’ tactical armor with a laugh. “Sure, big guy.” He turned to Steve with an outstretched hand, giving the blond a smile. “Dean. Dean Winchester. I take it you are the can't-not-pick-a-fight best friend?” James had mentioned Steve on a couple occasions as memories had just began to return but never by name.

 

Steve instantly fell into the polite act, shaking Dean’s hand firmly. “Steve Rogers. This guy's best friend since 1930.” He jerked his thumb in James’ direction, assuming anyone who called Barnes ‘James’ would know of the past proceedings.

 

Dean froze for a moment. “1930?” He turned back to James with a nervous smile, hands snapping to his side.

 

James picked up on the confusion and internally cursed Steve. “How about we talk about this at the Tower? Stark can deal with clean up.”

 

Steve glanced between the two for a moment before nodding his consent. Dean followed with a jerky motion.


End file.
